samedi 12 avril 2014

And Then Everything Made Sense (part 1)

This is a true story,
and it took place over several years - summed up here in a few pages, but
still, it's longer than my usual posts. Here is the first part (out of four). See on the bottom of each part for the link to the next.

My first true understanding took place in
the forest.

For a long time, I was more at ease in
the company of animals, trees and birds, or alone with the ocean and the
elements, than in the company of humans.

This scene reminds me of Kipling, for some reason.

People were mysterious and unpredictable;
I had no access to their thoughts and motives. I felt constantly awkward, with
my classmates or with adults – well into my student years.

My teenager dream was to live in the desert
forever, with books and art supplies... I might even tame a wild pony, or a
fox. But I knew enough of “life”, through books of course, to understand that
this was not possible. You could not make a living that way, nor could you spend your
life avoiding people, apparently.

Eventually, I did learn how to make a
living within society, both as a translator – which can be done in the desert,
I guess, although I had no idea some folks actually do that – and as a
bookseller… I enjoy finding the right words to express an author’s “voice” and view
of the world, which is useful in both activities :o)

But real-life people were still opaque to
me. And so was life in general.

Can you guess what this is?

Then I moved to Montréal, which had two
major consequences: I could start being myself at last, and I could also start
relating to humans in a genuine way. Both were truly rewarding! However, after
a few years into the process, it was still puzzling me.

I was becoming increasingly sensitive to people’s
feelings, and overwhelmed by small events: an exchange of glances, a gesture – I
often noticed tiny beautiful things in people, or between them, and my whole
being resonated in a disproportionate way, probably because I had been cut out
from these perceptions for too long.

This was drawn on a tiny notebook, in the dark, from way up above the singer. Which is why I am still quite happy with the result.

For instance, the sight of a granddad
holding his tiny grandson’s hand in a park, even from a distance, would fill me up with a deep emotion, and I did not know what to do with it. Or, as I was showing
a picture-book to a parent, my voice frequently faltered when I reached the
last pages. After a good contemporary dance show in a small-scale venue, I was
high and exhausted as if I had been dancing myself... And so on.

Several times a day, I felt like a guitar
whose strings were being struck (generally all at the same time) without warning
or explanation. Sometimes it was quite loud. Sometimes it left me a bit weary. And
if I was the only one to hear it, what was the point?

Brimming with joy.

So I often took walks among the trees.

Their time was much longer than human
time. They were benevolent and patient. They would still be there way after I
had disappeared, and this was strangely soothing. I felt as if they were
saying: “It’s okay… don’t worry. Whatever happens, all is well.”

But in the magic hour between afternoon
and evening, when the tree tops darkened against the transparent sky, the pure
beauty of it resonated (as well) in my soul and heart, where my exhilaration was
mingled with a deep longing. A longing for what? I did not know.

Am I the only one who feels this sight is calling us into the transparent sky?With the paper-cut silhouettes as our personal prompters on a stage?

This happened even in broad daylight,
whenever I was standing close to one of these immense Cottonwoods that we have in
Montréal – particularly if there was even a slight breeze shaking their
murmuring leaves. Trembling in unison, but unable to respond to the
Cottonwoods’ gentle, powerful call to become one with them, I felt hopelessly
in exile.

“I must have been a Cottonwood in some
previous life”, I thought, but then again, what should I do with this
experience?

Here they are, my awe-inspiring and gentle friends, soaring above the three-storey houses.I can hear their wonderful rustle, and feel the warm summer wind, every time I consider this picture.

Then one evening in October, as I was
coming home through the forest, feeling dizzy and strange because I hadn’t
slept in 48 hours (a deadline to meet), the wind was so rowdy that even the
tallest trees were pushed around this way and that – what a strong, joyful mood
was agitating the whole forest!

Suddenly, there was a long, powerful rush of wind culminating
in the Cottonwoods right above me, calling me stronger than ever before – and it
happened: without even being aware of the transition, I was suddenly one with everything…
the Cottonwoods and the Maple trees and the Oaks; the wind; the rain that had been
soaking the forest all day; I could even feel the stones’ vibrations in my
bones.

This one is a summer storm.

What happened then is a story in itself,
and I have written about this experience in a short piece that I intend to
illustrate and get published :o) so I
won’t elaborate about it now, but my true connection with the world and its
inhabitants began right there and then.

Because this is our natural state, the one we are all meant to experience all
the time.

I realized, quite simply, that my
previous feeling of ‘being in exile’ from Nature was an illusion. The deep
beauty of the natural world was right there inside me – and this is what the trees had been telling me all along…

You are not lost, child.

And you are never alone.

Cottonwoods reflected in the melting snow.

Some time later, I told a friend that I
was looking for a good meditation course. “There is Vipassana”, he said simply,
writing down the Website on a piece of paper. I looked it up, and I knew it was
just right for me. So I registered in a ten-day course. And I went. It was
truly helpful, and quite illuminating.

Again, the whole process is not easy to
describe – the experience is based on simple but subtle things, like all basic
meditation practices – and this process can be unsettling but empowering, too.
Particularly, I feel, in the Vipassana approach, which is derived from Buddha’s
teachings. If you are curious, here is a good explanation of its principles.

Canal Saint-Martin, Paris

This specific observation resonated in
me, in relation to what I had experienced in the forest: “We are not separate:
we are all made of the same molecules; the same feelings make us happy or
miserable… We are all one, really.” (I summarize from memory, this is not a
direct quote).

So practicing Vipassana became the second
significant experience in my quest, both as a technique to observe my (positive
or negative) emotions with equanimity – instead of being overwhelmed by them –
and as a more general frame of perception, where I could become connected to people
in the same way I was now feeling connected to Nature.

Oh I'm excited to read more. As you may know I've had a very similar experience, one that led me to where I am now and I'm fascinated to read about how other have come to them. There is a term, Kensho, for that brief moment, glimpse of enlightenment that fades, but leaves a lasting impression and a longing to return to that state. I'd be curious to hear more about Vipassana, because there's so many folks in my immediate circle who go, or have gone. I've heard both good things and other things, but because I've not found a Zen retreat accessible to me here, I have considered it. Curious. Now off to read part two. Thank you for sharing your experience.

I didn't know this concept of Kensho, it is indeed quite fitting! There is a beautiful paragraph in your post "Moments of transcendence" that describes this kind of happening :

"when the world contracts and expands all at once, with you standing in it's center, seeing, hearing everything, yet forgetting that you are a separate body, an independent nervous system from it. Moments of transcendence."

...this made my heart jump because I knew then that you had lived something similar to my experience in the forest (which lasted for half an hour actually).

How I would love to read about your own experience Milla! Is it described somewhere on your blog?

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